ohferfucksake

The nerds have taken over Hollywood, America and the world. It wasn’t just superheroes either. Zombies, androids, vampires, wizards, aliens, werewolves, intergalactic sagas, Lego, H.P. Lovecraft, Tolkien, board games based on TV shows – though these things were never unpopular per se, they always belonged to children, or to people at the lonelier fringes of the culture. Now they are the culture.

It’s true that a lot of pop culture seems perpetually juvenile. It’s also true that a phase of extended adolescence seems to be the new normal — not just in the case of entertainment choices, but also concerning the delayed onset of careers and families, the traditional markers of settled adulthood. How much of this is a sign of cultural enfeeblement and decadence? Alternatively, how much of it is attributable to the new “problem of abundance” created by technology, which allows individuals an increasing plethora of options with which to customize their lives, even as it disrupts the stability of many career options? In other words, is the end nigh, or is this all just the latest sound and fury in the open-ended evolution of a species with no inherent telos? There are many interesting angles that could be explored regarding this topic. Unfortunately, since we inhabit a deeply-stupid media ecosystem, all slippery slopes must lead to you-know-who:

If many people in a society feel like outsiders and the major mass culture tells them loudly and constantly that this is a noble thing to be, then what kind of politics will you have? There are battalions of pollsters, number-crunchers and political scientists who could explain what happened in 2016 – but a Trump presidency became possible first with the popularity of characters like Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne.

If the Venn diagram overlap between Comic-Con attendees and MAGA-hat wearers didn’t exist, it would have to be invented. It’s like a more mainstream version of intersectionality — all bad things are interconnected. The popcorn entertainment I disapprove of is basically the same thing as the worst political trends in the world. It’s convenient how that’s always the case. Ironically, just a few paragraphs earlier, he claimed that Marvel movies “reflect Americans [sic] paranoia right back at them to pack out theaters.” Apparently they also serve as a foundation to allow critics to make specious, not to say paranoid, connections in order to pack out a word count.

But beyond the pleasure of Dreyer’s prose and authorial tone, I think there is something else at play with the popularity of his book. To put it as simply as possible, the man cares, and we need people who care right now.

Oh, no. Surely not. No, please don’t…!

Our current era is marked by cynicism and nihilism—it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, that we managed to elect the worst person in the world as president, a con artist and pathological liar who will say anything to stay in the public consciousness and keep the inverted pyramid of his shabby criminal empire from toppling down onto his empty head. Trump is an avatar of everything impermanent, incompetent, and insincere about this era, and I believe there’s a great inchoate hunger for the opposite, for someone who thinks that words and ideas matter.

Sigh. He did it. Yes, of course, if a literary style guide becomes a surprise bestseller, it must have something to do with Donald Trump, the star at the center of the bien-pensant solar system. A moment’s reflection would remind us that Steven Pinker, to name one example, also wrote a bestselling style guide in 2014, suggesting that there may just be a sizable audience with a perennial interest in the craft of writing regardless of political trends, an audience that, shockingly, might not spend every conscious moment obsessing over Donald Trump. Frankly, this kind of “praise” is a philistine insult. It reduces a thoughtful consideration of language and writing to just another emoticon in the frivolous chatter of the news cycle. A book on stylish writing, grown women wearing ridiculous pussy hats — they’re just interchangeable symbols of self-indulgent #resistance. I’m afraid the barbarians are already inside the gates of the literary imagination.

As Nathan Hale famously said, I only regret that I had but one joke to make about progressive feminists being as dumb as bugs, and I already used it. Regrets are endlessly renewable, though, and I’ll regret it again the next time Sarah Jones tweets something stupid, which is to say, the next time she logs in to her account.

The vast majority of couples I’ve spoken to who have opened up a central or ‘primary’ partnership have done so precisely as a way of being more faithful – a way of having neither to cheat nor leave. For them, it’s been a case of sustaining a good thing, keeping promises and allowing one another to thrive.

…‘But isn’t it an admission that something’s lacking?’ Bex asked.

‘Absolutely,’ I said, ‘but since when does any one person meet every single one of your needs? I’ve never had a relationship without several items left un-ticked on my ideal wish list. Finally I get to be respectfully honest about it without getting my head bitten off.’

The Idler is a publication essentially dedicated to the observation of limits. They’re not advocating rebellion so much as a sort of intellectual civil disobedience. They publish bodice-ripping fantasies of freedom for Office Space cubicle drones. Animated by the spirit of Bartleby the Scrivener, they look upon the modern cults of ambition, achievement and efficiency and demur, “I would prefer not to.” So it’s especially funny to see them publishing a piece on (the inaptly-named) polyamory, a trend which truly exemplifies the vain hope of “having it all.” The greed of the poly mentality, which would be readily apparent to the average Idler if the objects of desire were mere material possessions, manages to pass unnoticed disguised in the modern virtues of egalitarianism and non-judgment. Biology’s truth will out, I suppose. It’s easy to pose as indifferent to wealth and status, but much more difficult to voluntarily limit oneself from pleasures of the flesh, especially when you consider the typical demographics of the people attracted to free love — young, unattached, and cosmopolitan. I said before that I continue to wait in vain for one of these proselytizers to follow up the cliché about how “no one person meets every one of your needs” with the equally valid observation that most of our “needs” are merely impulsive wants that it would be better to ignore and outgrow. You’d think a publication devoted to criticizing restless acquisition would be ideally suited for that.

A truly progressive man, then, would be one who rejects the social and economic advantages that come from hegemonic masculinity and patriarchal conformity. A “feminine flourish,” as Cremin puts it, of perfume or lipstick or a silk blouse, would undercut a man’s power immediately in both the workplace and on the sexual market. But why is that still true, other than because men are heavily invested in retaining old forms and modes of power, and are unwilling to take even the smallest step toward voluntarily relinquishing it—as well as having a disinterest in, or belittling viewpoint of, femininity and women, and a fear of being mistaken for gay? You know, small things like that. The feminine potential that lies within men is often spoken about in terms of caretaking and parenting within marriages and nuclear families—which are forms of patriarchal control, too—rather than with regard to exploring sensuality, beauty, and softness.

I suppose I stand corrected. When I suggested the other day that our inclinations and behaviors around here were more truly genderbendy than all these bandwagon-jumpers who change their pronouns as often as their underwear, I failed to recognize that those ostensibly non-conforming practices were still taking place within the confines of a hetero-patriarchal relationship, rendering them null and void with regard to their revolutionary potential. Plus, the Lady of the House still harbors a reactionary fondness for fashionable clothes and makeup, while I, with my “gym bod” and “nostalgia bearding,” am clearly reacting out of subconscious fear of the, uh, “rise of the visibility of women and queers in the public realm,” desperately trying to reassert my threatened masculinity. Let’s not even mention my t-shirt and cargo-shorts wardrobe. Point is, “true” revolutionary socialism will only arrive when we’re all dressing like Ziggy Stardust. If the history of actually-existing revolutionary socialism is any indication, it’s more likely we’d all be wearing drab unisex Mao Suits, but okay, whatever.

Funny enough, I don’t actually have any problem with the idea that fashion is a largely-arbitrary social construction that could be changed with no lasting consequences to the social order. Whether we call them kilts, skirts, sarongs, kimonos, dresses or robes, I’m all in favor of dressing comfortably. If it became socially acceptable for guys to wear eyeliner, I’d probably do it. I fully admit that the only reason I don’t is because it’s not a hill I’m willing to answer ten thousand questions upon. Life is all about tradeoffs, and I simply don’t feel strongly enough about men’s indubitable right to wear makeup to do it myself. I mean, having a beard, even if only because I like the way it looks, apparently opens me to charges of being subconsciously homophobic and misogynist, so I really just don’t have the time to face interrogation over the subtext of my lip gloss as well. Is this proof of the stifling conformity of capitalist patriarchy, or is it just the adult recognition of the fact that not all battles are equally worth fighting?

No, the article would be unremarkable were it not for the fact of Crispin’s determination to squeeze in her typically half-baked ideas about socialist utopia. Well, since we’re all pretending to be able to read each other’s minds here, allow me to go ahead and speculate that her generic bowl of buzzword soup here is just the latest product of her admittedly-incomplete education and its attending inferiority complex. An intellectual orphan, left to fend for herself in the inhospitable, culturally sterile Midwest, trying to cobble together a sophisticated worldview through voracious, indiscriminate reading, she apparently impressed upon the first jargon-spouting critical theorist she encountered and never outgrew it. And so, sadly, here she is, close to middle age, proud of having attained fluency in academese, and evidently unaware that it does nothing to disguise the adolescent puerility of her ideas. “When we remove forms of control, we are left to act freely on our desires.” Yes, and only a superficially-intelligent naïf who confuses bookishness with wisdom assumes that this is likely to turn out well.

If Weinstein’s name is to be removed from the credits of television shows in the production of which he played even a small part, what are we to do with the mountains of records, CDs, posters, books, memorabilia, commemorating rockers? What about the so-called “Rock and Roll Hall of Fame”? What is the point at which it becomes necessary for us to channel our inner Savonarolas and just start burning? Is one confirmed incident enough? How many Station to Stations or Physical Graffitis are worth the assault of a single woman or child? Are we affirming or materially contributing to their crimes when we watch films or listen to music made by abusers?

Like the rest of human life, sexuality has been subsumed over the course of the last few decades into the language of economics. The sexual act, we tell ourselves, is a simple matter of exchange between consenting partners, like a business transaction. It has nothing whatever to do with marriage or children. Like the deregulation of the economy, the privatization of sex has given us some apparent winners and a rather larger number of clear losers.

It’s hard to care how much has to burn for us to start listening to them.

That’s the problem with feeding frenzies. As entertaining as it may be to see an odious, degenerate elephant seal like Harvey Weinstein being torn apart by sharks, the blood in the water attracts all sorts of annoying smaller fish desperate to join in, and if they can’t get close enough to the intoxicating action, they’ll just turn and snap at anything within reach. Walther wants to extend the bloodlust to every celebrity who has committed similar offenses, so apparently we’re supposed to abstain from listening to the music of Don Henley, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Ted Nugent, Charlie Parker, and the Rolling Stones in solidarity with their victims. I presume he didn’t intend to present us with such an overwhelmingly white list of offenders, when such obvious (and arguably more relevant) candidates as Chuck Berry, Tupac Shakur, Nelly, Mystikal, and R. Kelly could have been included, but then again, feeding frenzies are dangerous places, and you don’t want to show up, eager to sink your teeth into a sexual predator, only to find yourself being devoured by the anti-racist barracudas.

Aldo Leopold, in his “Odyssey” essay, poetically demonstrated the interconnectedness of all life by describing a particular cycle in the existence of a nitrogen atom, from rock, to flower, to acorn, to deer, to Indian, “all in a single year,” and on and on. I mention it here in order to make a short metaphorical hop over to suggesting that Walther’s incoherent fantasy of isolating “bad” people in a moral quarantine is just that, a fantasy. What if, let’s just say ferzample, the cure for cancer ends up being discovered by a scientist who spent countless hours researching and experimenting while being inspired by listening to Led Zeppelin on repeat? Would that “justify” their music against whatever claims could be made against it on behalf of abused, underage groupies? What kind of imbecilic utilitarian (but I repeat myself) would even attempt to devise a calculus to meaningfully answer that inane question? Was the music of Bach or Mozart contaminated by the fact that commandants in Nazi death camps could force prisoners to play it for their entertainment? Shall we go on compiling similar examples? Like Leopold’s nitrogen atom, human lives and human creations restlessly zigzag across neat-and-tidy definitional boundaries, contributing to both good and bad in the world simultaneously. T’was ever thus, t’will forever be.

As Nietzsche said, “Beware all those in whom the urge to punish is powerful.” To people like Walther, it’s not important whether there’s any meaningful, accurate way in which moral credits and debits can be tallied when it comes to the production and consumption of music and films; what’s important is that he and people like him assume they’ll be the judges who make those decisions. But once the statues start toppling, and the records and books start burning, these moral purification rituals tend to take on a life and momentum of their own. He may be too stupid to realize that, or he may be cynically presenting a stupid, unworkable idea for the sake of meaningless Internet virtue points. I’m not sure which would be worse.

So what can you do when a customer wants a book that you not only find objectionable but also believe actually dangerous in the lessons it portends amidst such a politically precarious time? If it helps, swap Elegy for any book that you find particularly insidious, whether it’s Atlas Shrugged, The Communist Manifesto, or The Bible. The question remains: without stooping to the level of crazed book-burning, does the bookseller’s role ever evolve past the capitalist exchange of money for paper and pulp? And are there meaningful ways to resist the continued sales of disastrous books?

Koziol has a problem. When he’s not playing to perfection the role of a Smug, Condescending Progressive straight out of central casting, he’s a bookseller, you see, and he’s distraught over the fact that even the “largely liberal, well-educated and well-meaning people” who patronize his store insist on seeking out such subversive thoughtcrime as, uh, J.D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy. What to do, what to do? Well, eventually our hero grudgingly concedes that there’s nothing he can do except to “start conversations” and listen “without judgment” as customers explain why they would even want to waste their time with such trash, but given his druthers, he would prefer to strangle distribution of the book by boycotting Vance’s publisher. Unfortunately, sigh, that doesn’t seem feasible. A question of tactics, not principle, you understand. But it’s so trying for him, having to stand by silently while all around him, people are making choices without consulting him first!

It’s hard to pick a favorite part. Is it the idea that a typical customer would be the slightest bit interested in justifying their purchase to some obnoxious employee demanding an explanation? Is it the demonstration, yet again, that would-be censors and commissars unfailingly assume that they will always be the ones with the power to decide what gets promoted and what goes down the memory hole? Is it the way, as already noted, that zealots like Koziol can’t even trust their “liberal, well-educated and well-meaning” peers to handle anything from the progressive Index Librorum Prohibitorum without supervision? For me, I think it’s the way he offers up alternative candidates for censorship as a “gotcha” — he apparently blithely assumes that everyone else is as much of a control freak as he is. Hell, one of the first books I ever sold was one of Ayn Rand’s novels. I even sold a copy of Mein Kampf on Hitler’s birthday. Free speech and free markets, baby, let the best ideas win!

The Closing of the American Mind makes for interesting reading today. The thrust of its complaint about elites and relativism has only intensified. But some of it does not hold up well at all. Take its snarkily written chapter with the heading “The Nietzscheanization of the Left or Vice Versa,” for example. In it, Bloom argued that the left had largely abandoned the discredited economic doctrines of Marx and, in their place, adopted a stylized anti-bourgeois Nietzsche. Nietzsche and his “will to power” over flabby liberal values no longer sustainable by reason or myth were still casting a revolutionary spell, Bloom asserted, but it was no longer over adherents of German and Italian fascism, discredited (to say the least) as those movements were by the horrors of World War II.

Nietzsche’s thought was now being transmitted through European leftists such as Georg Lukacs, Alexandre Kojeve, Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Jean-Paul Sartre, who had jettisoned Marx’s “embarrassing economic determinism” and created a new “mutant” crossbreed of Nietzsche and Marx:

The mature Marx had almost nothing to say about art, music, literature, or education, or about what the life of man would be when the yoke of oppression was lifted. His early “humanistic” writings were looked by some for the inspiration lacking in the later ones, but they turned out to be thin and derivative stuff. Since the Nietzscheans spoke so marvelously well about all these things, why not just appropriate what they said? So they took over “the last man,” whom they identified with the Marx’s bourgeois, and “the superman,” whom they identified with the victorious proletarian after the revolution. [The Closing of the American Mind]

Without crawling further into the weeds, suffice it to say that, in 2017, the philosophical picture that Bloom painted in 1987 has been inverted. In the post-crash, post-Picketty era of global inequality, the Marxist-minded left is very much interested in those discarded economic doctrines. And the far right, as evidenced by Spencer and his ilk, is very much interested in Nietzsche as he was originally understood by 20th-century fascists.

Lord, what a deeply stupid article. I mean, Francis Fukuyama may have proclaimed “the end of history” after the fall of the USSR, but I’m pretty sure even he never suggested that political fashions would no longer be recycled in the same superficial manner as clothing and pop music. Yes, the “Marxist-minded left” most certainly has been doing its best to reanimate the mummified corpse of their old dogma. And what of it? Even as we speak, Venezuela is busy segueing from every airhead’s favorite example of “hope for the socialist future” to the inevitable “it was never real socialism anyway” denouement. Progressive media’s favorite neo-Nazi claims to have been inspired by Nietzsche? Well, yes, as ever, people can find whichever philosophical justification in Nietzsche they’re determined to find, fascists included. Is this supposed to tell us something meaningful about the substance of these beliefs, or are we just supposed to find something profound about the ephemeral fact that everything old is currently new again? What happens in a few years when Trump is out of office, the media are bounding around after a different red laser dot, socialist theory is still moribund, and today’s social media revolutionaries have all reached their thirties and settled down with corporate careers and families? Will that make Bloom prescient again? To address questions like that, you’d need context and perspective, and you’re not going to find them amid this tripe.

Ironically enough, this article itself reads as a confirmation of Bloom’s point. Whether he was right or wrong in asserting that the left has settled for an aesthetic style of politics after losing faith in historical dialectic and economic determinism isn’t the point; this is just a rhetorical angle from which to approach the actual subject of the article, namely Richard Spencer. Because God knows, criminally stupid progressive media clickwhores haven’t given the man enough free publicity as it is. They need a narrative, and a demographic that was apparently educated by the History Channel naturally responded to Brexit, Trump, et. al. by seeing Nazis, Nazis everywhere. Not because it provided a useful explanatory framework to understand these events, but because it provides said demographic with a chance to LARP as the French Resistance and thus provides a frisson of purpose to their comfortable lives, which they feel terribly guilty about anyway. It presses down hard on nerves that have been long since deadened by comfort and security. There’s no reason to believe that “Spencer and his ilk” are any more pervasive or threatening than any other fringe white-power groups from the last several decades, but he’s become the subject of countless media profiles in recent months because he plays a central role in the story progressives love to repeatedly tell themselves, and if the fact that so much political punditry consists of nothing but this storytelling doesn’t prove that Bloom was pinpoint-accurate in his assessment, I don’t know what would.

I write in my notebook with the intention of stimulating good conversation, hoping that it will also be of use to some fellow traveler. But perhaps my notes are mere drunken chatter, the incoherent babbling of a dreamer. If so, read them as such.

Vox Populi

The prose is immaculate. [You] should be an English teacher…Do keep writing; you should get paid for it, but that’s hard to find.

—Noel

You are such a fantastic writer! I’m with Noel; your mad writing skills could lead to income.

—Sandi

WOW – I’m all ready to yell “FUCK YOU MAN” and I didn’t get through the first paragraph.

—Anonymous

You strike me as being too versatile to confine yourself to a single vein. You have such exceptional talent as a writer. Your style reminds me of Swift in its combination of ferocity and wit, and your metaphors manage to be vivid, accurate and original at the same time, a rare feat. Plus you’re funny as hell. So, my point is that what you actually write about is, in a sense, secondary. It’s the way you write that’s impressive, and never more convincingly than when you don’t even think you’re writing — I mean when you’re relaxed and expressing yourself spontaneously.

—Arthur

Posts like yours would be better if you read the posts you critique more carefully…I’ve yet to see anyone else misread or mischaracterize my post in the manner you have.

—Battochio

You truly have an incredible gift for clear thought expressed in the written word. You write the way people talk.